


Rose Garden Dreams

by objectlesson



Series: Daisy Chains [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/F, Fever, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Light Bondage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Harry thinks it’s a fever-induced delirium, at first. After all, she’s been sick in bed for a full forty-eight hours following the Best and Most Important beach trip of her entire life because fate is a cruel and jealous bitch who doesn’t want Harry to go on a date with the girl of her dreams.---or, Harry  is sick and Louis comes to visit her.





	Rose Garden Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I promised a sequel to Wrap You Up in Daisy Chains...here it is!!! Harry's POV, a few days later. Louis continues to be the Butch Beauty of everyone's diary fantasies, and Harry continues to be desperate and eager to the point of secondhand embarrassment. 
> 
> Thank you HurdyGurdy as always, for the speedy beta/britpick job, especially when this contains so many lesbians and you are not a lesbian. I love you and appreciate you so very much <3

Harry thinks it’s a fever-induced delirium, at first. After all, she’s been sick in bed for a full forty-eight hours following the Best and Most Important beach trip of her entire life because fate is a cruel and jealous bitch who doesn’t want Harry to go on a date with the girl of her dreams. 

The girl of her dreams whose distinct laugh Harry just hallucinated in her _own home_. She thought the fever broke for good last night, that she was on the tail end of this flu, but apparently that isn’t the case. Harry freezes, rolling over and turning down her music so that she can hear better. 

Then, in the newfound silence, it happens again. That clear, high laugh, like a peal of sunshine, if sunshine had a sound. Harry’s heart stops, and then there’s Louis’s _voice_ , Louis actually _saying_ something, chatting with Gemma in the kitchen, maybe, or the living room.

Fuck. What… _why_ would Louis be in her house? Harry panics, throwing off her duvet and looking down at her bony legs critically. She’s wearing a stained pair of Union Jack boxers someone gave her as a gag gift a million years ago and a threadbare grey vest with faded perspiration marks in the underarms. And on the subject of perspiration, she’s been _stewing in her own fever-sweat_ for the past two days, self-deprecatingly masturbating while she remembers what it felt like to have her head between Louis Tomlinson’s _thighs_. 

_Louis_. Harry doesn’t know what to do, but she knows she has to do _something_ , just in case Louis isn’t here only to hang out with Gemma and, like…wants to find her, talk to her. 

The night of their beach trip, Louis had dropped her off last, even though it was out of the way. And there, in her car and under the moon, she had killed the engine, turned to Harry, and leaned across the front seat divider to cup her face between her palms and kiss her so fucking deeply that Harry thought she was going to dissolve right there in the passenger seat, the whole of her body turning to nothing but sea and surf and sand. _So_ , Louis had said as she pulled away, smoothing her thumb across Harry’s lower lip, eyes hazy, half-lidded, and sparkly all at once. _Can I take you out tomorrow night? Whatever you want…we can go for a drive or get dinner or check out the new bowling place in Sheffield. I hear it’s ace._

And Harry had so eagerly agreed, even though her throat was already rough and scratchy, a coldness settling into her bones on the drive home that she couldn’t shake. By the next day, she was a snotty, feverish mess and had to shamefully text Louis to tell her that she couldn’t make it after all, positively _devastated_.

Now, Louis is in her _house_. And Harry is _disgusting_ , a sick, disastrous mess. Totally unpresentable. She creeps to her closed door, pressing her ear to the frame so that she can listen, stomach dropping as Louis laughs again, the sound of it echoing down the hallway. Harry slowly, carefully twists the knob, wincing as the door creaks open before she can safely tiptoe over to the bathroom. She’s unsteady, legs wobbly from an entire day of no walking and at least three orgasms. She smells her fingers self-consciously once she reaches the sink, wrinkling her nose at the mirror’s reflection, which is nothing short of appalling. 

Her hair is everywhere, with loose, frizzy tangles on top and short curls sticking up spectacularly in the back, almost like she’s done nothing but repeatedly grind her head into her pillow and sleep a lot (spoiler alert: that’s exactly what she did). Plus, she has no makeup on, her eyes are puffy and sick-looking, and there’s an ugly breakout right at her hairline. Harry washes her face, knowing full well that there’s nothing really to be done about any of this, that it’s as unattractive for her to sneak into the bathroom and put _makeup_ on her fever-flushed face the second she hears Louis’s voice as it is for her to look like an absolute mess. She pats her cheeks dry before scrubbing her hands and brushing her teeth; prettiness is a lofty and unattainable goal at this point, but cleanliness is realistic. Necessary, even. She spits a mouthful of foam into the sink, wipes her lips on the back of her hand, finger-combs her hair a bit, and sneaks back into her room. 

She’s in the midst of digging through her dresser for _something_ that isn’t stained and gross when she hears it: Louis’s voice again, closer this time, saying, “You think she’s sleeping? I don’t want to wake her up if she needs her rest…” 

_No!_ Harry thinks frantically, flinging an armful of clothes across the room in favour of bounding back into her bed and kicking her feet under the duvet. _Don’t go_. “She’s fine. I heard her listening to music a little while ago, so she’s probably just in there moping and feeling sorry for herself,” Gemma explains, _right outside the bedroom door,_ and Harry might have been internally pleading for Louis to stay, but now that the threat of her actually coming in and seeing Harry lying on a throne of tissues and dirty sheets is more of an impending reality, she's terrified. Harry’s been in love with Louis for as long as she knew what that meant, and she never, ever, _ever_ thought anything could come of it until Saturday, when Louis pulled her fucking bathing suit aside and proved her wrong. She doesn’t want to fuck this already highly unlikely situation up; she doesn’t want Louis to realize too soon that she’s actually not very cute or sexy at all, that she’s merely someone’s kid sister in old boxers and a day’s worth of fever-sweat. 

Harry yanks the duvet up to her chin, heart rabbiting in her chest. She wants to _impress Louis_ , but she’s also acutely aware that she doesn’t actually…know how to do that. Like, at all. She doesn’t know what impresses girls like Louis, a girl who wears faded old bathing suits and doesn’t even trim her pubic hair or shave her legs, a girl who cuts the sleeves out of her T-shirts and lets her sports bra show, a girl who never wears makeup, who _calls herself a dyke_ like it’s something to be proud of. Who makes it feel like it’s something to be proud of. Harry’s instinct is to put makeup on and cover her breakout and make sure she smells good, but maybe…maybe Louis doesn’t even like that sort of thing, maybe she thinks it’s shallow or stupid. Harry doesn’t know; she’s only eighteen and has never had a girlfriend. 

There’s a soft knock on Harry’s door, and she wants to _die_. She can feel her fever coming back in a single hot wave, her body suddenly achey and shivery at the same time. “Erm, hello?” she rasps, voice hoarse. 

“Hey, Harry? S’Louis, was wondering if I could come in? I know you’re sick, but I brought you something! Or you can tell me to piss off if this is annoying.” 

It’s not annoying. Obviously. Harry nervously clutches at her duvet, fighting a miniature internal battle before realizing that given the choice between seeing Louis and not seeing Louis, she will always, always choose seeing Louis. A younger Harry used to stay home from parties because she _knew_ Louis was coming over to watch movies and play Uno with Gemma, and even if she wasn’t technically invited, she’d much rather watch Louis laugh and drink wine coolers and sit on the living room floor in her socks than be somewhere…anywhere…else. “Please don’t piss off,” she croaks, covering her mouth to cough for a second before adding, “C’mon in, just…m’sick, so, like, sorry for the germs.” 

Louis cracks the door open carefully and shoulders her way through. She’s barefoot and wearing denim cut-offs cuffed just above the knee and a black Void shirt with arm holes gaping so widely that Harry can see a single glorious roll of golden tummy as she twists to shut the door behind her, smoothing the stray bits of fringe poking out from under her backward-facing snapback. Harry wants to faint. She cannot… _cannot believe_ she got to kiss this girl. And is possibly about to ruin it with her total and utter lack of deodorant. Which she forgot to put on during her trip to the bathroom, _like an idiot_. 

“How ya feelin’?” Louis asks conversationally, worrying a small bag of something between her hands. “Your sister just left, by the way...sneaking out while your mum’s at work...in case you wanna tell on her or summat.” 

Harry doesn’t answer because she’s too busy staring at the bag with narrowed, affronted eyes. “Is that…did you bring me _weed?!_ ” she gasps. 

Louis looks down, then back up, nose crinkled. “What?! No, who do you think I am? That couldn’t be good for your lungs, and m’not gonna waste my good bud on someone with a _flu_ ,” she explains, coming closer and closer to the bed, as if she doesn’t mind at all that Harry probably smells terrible and may or may not be dying from the plague. She sets the bag down on Harry’s bedside table, between the glass of water and the box of tissues, and clarifies, “It’s chamomile. Like, real chamomile, from me mum’s garden. Thought it might help with your throat.” 

The throat in question is suddenly thick, and Harry has to choke back a wave of grateful, overwhelmed tears. Louis is so _nice_. So wonderful. So undeserving of flu germs. “That’s…wow, Louis. Thank you so much,” Harry says quietly, gaze sweeping up to meet Louis’s, everything suddenly feeling charged, electric, almost painful. She digs her toes into her sheets, cheeks burning. 

Louis takes off her hat and wrings it between her hands for a moment before setting it down on the bedside table next to the bag. “So…you really _are_ sick. I half-thought you were faking it to get out of our date,” she jokes coyly, smoothing her hair where it’s mussed on top. 

Harry’s eyes widen, heart contracting in a strange, muted panic. “God, of course not. I was so mad I couldn’t make it that I literally considered coming anyway, even though I was, like, totally delirious. Had a fever,” she explains in a rush, fiddling with her duvet nervously. “I really…I really, really wanted to.” 

“Well, m’here now. If you’re tired, I can just leave you your tea, and we can hang out later, when you’re feeling better, but if you're up for it, I’m not doing anything for the rest of the day…I could stay. Watch a flick with you or something,” Louis offers before she shrugs. The motion is nonchalant, but Harry can _sense_ an uncertainty about her, like she’s genuinely not sure whether Harry wants her around. And it’s baffling, really, to see Louis out of sorts at all, especially about _her_. 

“Of course I want you to stay! If you don’t mind that I’m, like…sick. And disgusting. I haven’t showered in forever, and—”

“I don’t care, I just wanted to see you,” Louis interrupts, shaking her head, silencing Harry because how can she possibly talk when Louis _looks like that_ , with those sharp cheekbones, long eyelashes, and pretty, smirking lips? “Can I…can I lie down with you?” Louis asks then, like that’s a normal thing to request from a sick person or a person at all. 

Harry can’t speak, so she just nods dumbly, scooting self-consciously over to make room for Louis on her mattress and its horrible, infected sheets. “You…you can’t get mad if you end up sick,” she manages to say before her brain flatlines completely because Louis is fucking _touching her_ , snuggling up close and tilting her back and nuzzling into her _dirty, tangled hair,_ and Harry miraculously doesn’t even _care,_ she feels so fucking magical and good. 

“Haven’t been able to think of anything except getting you in my arms again. Sorry, I just...couldn’t wait,” Louis mumbles, lips moving against Harry’s _neck_ , and fuck, she’s feverish, she’s gonna burn up and incinerate and leave Louis with an armful of ash. “Is this okay?” Louis asks. 

_It’s perfect_ , Harry thinks, wondering if she’s having another hallucination, if this is all another symptom of her awful flu. “Yes,” she chokes out. “I can’t believe you actually wanna touch me right now, though.” 

“Always wanna touch you,” Louis confesses, and Harry shudders, melting into her a little bit. She doesn't even care if she’s dreaming, if this is heaven. She’s gonna bask in it and not ask anymore questions, she’s just gonna _die_ here, so happily. Louis smooths a gentle hand up her side, over her vest, adding in a soft murmur, “Missed you.” 

“I obviously…obviously missed you, too,” Harry tells her breathlessly, even though she's almost certain now that this isn’t real. Things like this simply don’t happen to normal eighteen-year-old baby lesbians, they just _don’t_. Louis’s a very warm, very good-smelling figment of her illness-addled imagination. 

“So,” Louis starts, drumming her fingers lightly on Harry’s ribs, “I wanted to ask you…is it…are you okay? With everything that happened on Saturday, I mean?” 

Harry blinks and doesn’t say anything; it’s hard to talk when you’re positively stunned. Louis must take her silence as an invitation to keep talking, so she adds, “I...I thought about it later and wasn't sure if I handled myself properly, and I just wanted to see how you felt about it. Make sure I wasn’t too weird...that I didn’t push you...that you’re…I dunno. Feeling alright.” Louis rambles out the last bit quietly, carefully. As if her voice were any louder, it might break something. 

Harry doesn’t…she doesn’t know what to say. _I’m not just okay with everything that happened, it literally was the highlight of my whole entire short gay life. I thought I told you that,_ she thinks, but saying it out loud seems so _extra_ , so embarrassing. She swallows thickly instead, shaking her head, aware that she’s sort of too-hot and tumbling under Louis’s touch, terrified that if she shifts or adjusts herself, Louis will pull away, stop. And that seems like the end of the world. She takes a deep breath and says, “Erm, I’m feeling alright…I’m feeling great, actually,” and even _that_ seems extra and embarrassing, so she clarifies, “Well, to be honest, I’m feeling shitty cos m’sick, but Saturday…Louis. Saturday was fucking amazing. I don’t even know how to tell you how amazing, really? If I did, you’d probably think I was really weird because it was, like…sort of like a religious experience or something.” And as soon as it leaves her mouth, Harry is mortified. She feels her cheeks colour, feels Louis’s mouth fall open in surprise or horror or something else equally humiliating, so she babbles, “M’sorry, I’m so sorry...it’s not…I don’t mean…s’just, how I said, I’ve liked you for forever but never, ever thought you’d like me back, so...it was basically, like, all my dreams coming true. Sorry if that’s lame.”

“It’s not _lame_ ,” Louis says, her smile so _huge_ , so relieved. “But it didn’t feel like I…pressured you or took advantage or anything?” she asks anxiously, a note of hope twisting the end of it into something soft, sad. Harry wonders if this has happened a lot, girls accusing Louis of pressuring them, of coming on too strongly. She thinks about all the times her own gaze lingered too long on a classmate changing for PE in secondary school and squirms at the memory. She thinks about Taylor, about how she stopped being her friend once she found out. 

“Not at all, not even a little bit. If anything, I was sort of pressuring you. I was the one who…asked to do the stuff we did,” Harry reminds her, cheeks so fucking flushed that they sort of hurt. 

Louis laughs, getting her arms all around Harry and squeezing her so tightly that her breath comes out in a wheeze. “You’re so cute,” she gushes, breath warm on Harry’s cheek, lovely and swoon-worthy. “You didn’t pressure me either, obviously. You couldn’t.” 

_I could,_ Harry thinks, _but I won’t because I want you to like me, I want to be good for you. The best. Can’t push you away_. There are so many things that she wants from Louis, so much that she's willing to beg for, but she forgets them all in this moment because Louis has stopped laughing and is leaning back to look at her with eyes suddenly pupil-dark, tongue sweeping over her lips. _Kiss me, god, please_ , Harry thinks with a wistful sort of desperation, and maybe because she’s psychic or something, Louis _does_ , thumbing over her chin before closing the distance between them and pressing their lips together fiercely. 

Harry gasps, even though she sees it coming, feels her lips burn in anticipation. She opens her mouth and forgets _entirely_ about germs and fevers and everything else because Louis is _snogging_ her again, rolling her onto her back in her own bed and moving her soft, soft, soft lips against hers, tongue flicking gently, _teasingly_ against the roof of her mouth before she pulls away enough to ask, “Is this okay?” 

Harry has forgotten the word yes, so she just nods frantically and pulls Louis back in with a fist in her shirt, desperate to taste her again, to feel the silky glide of her tongue, everything slick and hot and surreal. Louis moans into it a little, holding Harry close and kissing her, _kissing her_. It’s so deep, and Harry’s so _dizzy_ , but it doesn’t even matter because there’s nowhere to fall, and Louis _has_ her, anyway. Has had her this whole time. 

Without even realizing it, really, Harry has pushed up the back of Louis’s shirt and is touching her under it with one hand, rubbing her smooth, tan skin as low as her black dimples, as high as the wings of her scapulae. She wants so badly to shove her hand under the waistband of Louis’s shorts and grab a fistful of arse (Louis’s arse is the subject of _many_ vivid fantasies that Harry has entertained over the years), but she isn’t sure if it’s _okay_ , if she’s allowed to. Plus, she’s distracted; it’s hard to think, to remember what she wants when Louis’s holding her so tightly and so solidly, petting her hair, her arms, kissing her so deeply and wetly and filthily. 

Harry isn’t sure how much time has passed, but she’s _dangerously_ , deliriously turned on. She wants more, wants Louis’s mouth on her neck, her hands on her skin and _under_ her clothes. She wants _friction_ , so without even totally realizing that she’s doing it, she throws a leg over Louis’s, tangling them together, using leverage to pull one of Louis’s thighs between her own and grinding down, gasping into Louis’s mouth at the feeling of solidity, of heat. 

Louis reels back, panting. “Jesus Christ, Harry,” she whispers, cheeks flushed and eyes hazy, half-lidded. “You should…maybe we should slow down a little, yeah?” 

And Harry…doesn’t understand why. They’ve already come in each other’s mouths in a _car,_ for chrissakes, and Louis wants her still, apparently, isn’t turned off by her terrible sickness, so why, _why_ should they slow down? Harry blinks, confused, digging her nails into Louis’s back reflexively. “Am I…am I doing something wrong?” 

Louis curses, visibly trembling as she lets go of Harry, hands smoothing down her arms like it _pains_ her. “No, not at all, love, you…god, you feel so good, it’s driving me insane, actually,” she admits, rubbing her flushed face with her palms. Harry can't stand the lack of contact, so she burrows closer, and Louis’s eyes flutter closed, her body tensing. “We just…well, you’re sick, yeah?” 

“Do you…not want my germs?” Harry asks, licking her lips where she can still taste Louis. 

“Fuck your germs, Harry, s’not that. I just. I really, really don’t want to take advantage, that’s all. I need to know one hundred percent that you want this. That you want me,” Louis clarifies, shaking her head, pursing her lips together. There’s wildness in her eyes, a frantic sort of heat that makes Harry think of fire, how it grows and grows, consumes things and leaves nothing but black in its wake. “You’re so eager, but, like, is that the fever talking, or—”

 _Fever???_ Harry chokes, thinking of fire again, one that has been smoldering for years, how she wants Louis so badly that it takes her over, burns her _up_. 

“You think…you think m’eager cos m’sick?!” Harry interrupts, incredulously. “The fever broke yesterday, I promise…Louis, I _promise._ I’ve _literally_ made myself come, like, five times in the last two days…just thinking about you,” she explains breathlessly, and Louis’s eyes get wide, shocked, glassy. It’s encouraging, so Harry keeps going, emboldened by the combination of desire and embarrassment twisting together hotly in her stomach. “Look,” she says, rolling over and pointing at her messy desk, where there’s a stack of composition notebooks stacked against the wall under a bottle of hair product and a can of coloured pencils and eraser bits. “You see those? They’re m’diaries, sort of, from the last few years. Not, like, normal diaries...they also have scrapbook-like memory stuff in ‘em...like, cinema stubs and doodles and, like, whenever I find a nice feather,” she tells her, stumbling nervously over the excess words, the mess of it all. “ _Anyway,_ I know for a fact that if I were to drag those out right now, there would be, like, one hundred pages about you. Poems and fantasies and stuff,” Harry sputters with fiery cheeks, and _god,_ it’s so embarrassing, she’s flushing all the way down her neck, and she can’t believe she’s _telling_ Louis this stuff, but if that’s what it takes to convince her that she _wants_ her, then so be it. 

“Fantasies?” Louis asks. “What _sort_ of fantasies, Harry Styles?” 

And hearing her _whole_ name drawn out in Louis’s voice, all husky and teasing and cheeky, makes Harry shiver. She bites her lip and shuffles her legs together nervously. “Erm,” she starts, dropping her eyes to the pattern on her sheets, working the pillowcase between her fingers. “M’pretty sure I wrote, ‘I wish Louis Tomlinson would tie me to my headboard and sit on my face,’ like, 200 times, at least,” she blurts out, and she hears Louis’s sharp intake of breath, sudden and ragged. “Sorry if that’s weird,” she adds. 

“Tie you to your _headboard?!_ ” Louis gasps, gaze flicking to the headboard in question, which happens to be white-painted metal in swirling filigree because Harry went through a princess phase when she was a kid and insisted on a princess bed, and this was what her mum came up with. “It _is_ a good headboard for that sort of thing,” Louis notes with a stomach-dropping sort of smirk, eyes meeting Harry’s. 

With little to no warning, Louis is touching her again, and Harry’s heart is in her throat. It’s hot and electric, the soft splay of Louis’s hand on the side of Harry’s face as she drags her in to kiss, slotting their bodies together, grinding against Harry’s thigh, and _yes,_ yes, yes, this is what she wants, what she _needs_. Louis tastes syrupy, like glaze or honey, and Harry gets dizzy on the flavour of her, the way she’s bearing down, pressing her into the bed roughly and solidly and tenderly all at once. “Harry,” she sighs at some point, flicking her tongue against the corner of Harry’s mouth. “You're so…fuck. You’re so _dirty_.” 

“M’sorry,” Harry rasps, hands mauling all over Louis’s back, grabbing fistfuls of sweat-dewy skin. “I brushed m’teeth.” 

Louis laughs, low and filthy into the heat of Harry’s mouth. “I noticed. Minty,” she whispers, and Harry _melts_. “ But I meant you’re _bad_...thought you were this innocent girl, but you’ve written about me in your _diary_. Don’t reckon you’ll let me read it, yeah?” 

“Erm,” Harry breathes, mind sort of flatlining into a haze of static as Louis licks a path down her throat, nibbling and chewing and sucking, her teeth the sharpest and hottest thing. “Maybe one day.” 

“Alright,” Louis murmurs, rubbing up Harry’s ribs before razing her nails down her side, making her squirm. And Harry is so fucking _wet_ , she can feel the messy slick of it in her boxers as she rubs her thighs together, bucks her hips. “M’gonna hold you to that,” Louis adds. 

Harry stops talking because she can’t remember words that aren’t _Louis_ and _fuck_ and _please_. Louis thumbs over one of her nipples, watching as it draws into a tight nub under her palm, mouth wide and wet and sucking over Harry's collarbone, like she wants her sweat, wants to swallow it. This goes on for entirely too long, Louis just _playing_ with her, feeling her chest and gently squeezing before scratching lightly down her sides, over her back, and as low as her waistband but never, ever below it. Harry’s starting to feel like she's gonna _die_ , her stomach so knotted up, sick from constant plummeting, dropping. 

“Louis,” she manages to get out at some point, grabbing clumsily for Louis’s hand and guiding it down the trembling plane of her stomach, then lower. “ _Please_ ,” she begs, and Louis’s breath catches on a ragged inhalation, teeth deep in Harry’s shoulder, fingers pressing into her tummy, like a question mark. “Touch me, please,” Harry repeats, because there should be no question, none at all. 

“Jesus,” Louis gasps, hand tremulous and sweat-damp as she _finally_ pushes it under Harry’s waistband, fingers combing through the short, coarse hair there. She’s gentle before she nudges her index and middle fingers lower, deeper, until they slide effortlessly into slickness, and _fuck_ , fuck. Harry bucks up, pressing herself into Louis, back arching as she whines low in her throat. “Oh, my god, Harry,” Louis whispers, moving her fingers, which make an obscene wet sound as she pushes in deep, pulls back out, teases. “You’re so…you’re _so_ fucking wet, so hard right here,” she marvels, rubbing Harry’s wetness up over her swollen clit, making her keen. “Fuck.” 

Harry is shaking, her whole body alive, drawn tight like a trip wire, even though she’s the one falling, spinning. Her chest heaves as she grinds down into Louis’s palm, and it’s _everything_. It feels like heaven, like a flood, like a storm. 

“Feel good?” Louis asks, rubbing her fingers delicately up and down Harry’s slit, nudging her clit each time and sending waves of electricity through her body, so much that her teeth are grit together and she has to lie still because if she grinds into it, she’s gonna come.

“So good…amazing,” Harry slurs, bringing her thighs together and squeezing Louis’s hand between them, writhing, pinning Louis’s wrist to keep her still. “M’already close.” 

“Oh?” Louis teases, fucking her fingers up into Harry and crooking them, leaning down and catching her lips in a sloppy kiss. “You’re one of those girls, hmmm? Come easy?” 

“You already know,” she answers, rocking into Louis’s palm, yelping when Louis pumps her fingers in deep. “How I come.” 

“Fuck,” Louis pants, pulling out in favour of rubbing back and forth over Harry's clit, circling it, feeling her out. It’s so _messy_ ; Harry can feel herself dripping down into the crack of her arse, everything hot and slick under Louis’s fingers, the firm, dizzying, fever-burn slide of them. “Yeah, but I wanna know _all_ the ways you come...wanna make you come over and over again,” she says lowly, right up against Harry’s ear as she touches her. “Are you that type of girl, too? Gonna gimme more than one?” 

_God_. Harry arches her back and groans, humping Louis’s hand, hips rolling. She doesn't even _care_ how ridiculous she looks, how desperate. She’s so close, and Louis’s so _good_ at this, careful and deliberate and practiced, mouthing wetly all over her neck as she touches between her legs, slickness _everywhere_ , sweat and spit and come. “Yes,” Harry grunts out, bucking. She pulses, and Louis _moans_ as she feels it, pulling back to just stare at her, pupils shot and mouth hanging open. 

It might be the look in Louis’s eyes that pushes Harry over the edge. It’s so _awed_ , so dark, so much pupil, so little blue. Harry combusts underneath it, the orgasm crashing over her like the tide, wave after staticky wave hitting her as she rides Louis’s hand. Through the hazy pound of blood roaring in her ears, she can hear Louis saying her name, can hear the broken sort of glory making it hoarse, tattered. _I did that,_ she thinks through the mess of overwhelm. _I made her sound like that._

“Oh, god, look at you,” Louis praises as she comes down, rubbing a slick, messy hand up over her shuddering abdominals, thumbing into the softness of her tummy. Harry loves it, preening as Louis spreads her _come_ all over her, marks her in herself. “Most beautiful thing.” 

Harry lies there limp and heaving, hasn’t even fully recovered her breath, and Louis is touching her again, opening her thighs and sliding a hot palm up the inside of her shorts, spreading her. Harry winces, so fucking sensitive that she almost _hurts_ , which is fine because Harry likes it to hurt a little. It’s so good, _too_ good, and she’s still trembling as Louis bends over her and says, “Up, baby. Wanna get your shorts off.” 

Harry lifts her hips as best she can, abdominals and quads quaking, and as soon as Louis rolls her boxers down her arse, she’s collapsing again. “Fuck me,” she whispers, catching Louis’s gaze for a few searing, gut-wrenching seconds. “Like, inside. Can come for you again if you fuck me.” 

“Okay,” Louis tells her, sliding two fingers in deep, teeth flashing in a hectic, feral sort of smile. Harry feels like it could cut her, it’s so sharp. She bears down, whimpering, and Louis shakes her head, voice full of wonder, “You’re so fucking fit, Harry...look so pretty like this.” 

And Harry _feels_ so pretty, so impossibly pretty, all her former insecurities about her body and her germs and her unbrushed hair simply falling away, fading into the hazy blur of her room as Louis spreads her out, kisses her thighs and her stomach, finger-fucks her deeply and slowly and steadily. And Louis’s _looking_ at her all the while, eyes roving over her body as she pushes her vest up to her neck, gasping at Harry’s drawn-tight nipples, her heaving ribcage. Harry just lolls on the bed, so overwhelmed by the way Louis _feels_ that she can’t even begin to worry about anything else. It’s magic, _Louis_ is magic, so she just lets it take her. 

She isn’t sure how long Louis fucks her, at what point she hefts up one of Harry’s legs and puts it on her shoulder to change the angle, but suddenly everything is nervy and tense and electric, Louis is thumbing over her clit, and it’s so much, _too much_ , that it has Harry convulsing. Louis babbles, “That’s it, baby...come for me again...can feel you,” and Harry _does_. She yelps and clamps down and bucks, writhing even as Louis tries to keep her still, fingers of her free hand biting into her hip to hold her down. 

Harry lies there and lets each wave of pleasure hit her again, body snapping, breath coming out in wild, hiccuping sobs. It leaves her dizzy and oversensitive, stars in her eyes, but Louis doesn’t stop touching, still guiding her hips through each new jerk and spasm. 

Once her breath is back, Louis withdraws her fingers, letting them slide out of Harry’s body in a slick mess. It shocks her so much that Harry cries out, chasing Louis’s touch down the bed, still wanting to be _filled_ , wanting Louis inside her. “Oh, my god,” Louis groans, rubbing her wet hand up Harry’s thigh before holding it out in front of her, fingers spread and glistening. “You made me pruney. Like I was in a bath.” She makes it sound like the greatest thing ever, and as Harry blinks the haze away so that she can see clearly, she smiles, chewing her lip lazily. 

“Is that…s’not gross, is it?” she asks, voice nothing but a shot, hoarse thing. 

Louis flicks her fringe out of her eyes and then makes a big show of sucking her fingers off, eyes fluttering closed, long pretty lashes sweeping the perfect cut of her cheekbones. Harry’s stomach drops, and she squeezes her thighs together even though she just came so hard that she’s dizzy. It’s just…Louis is unbelievably hot, _unreal_ as she pulls off her fingers, smacks her lips, and teases, “What do you think?” 

“I think…think that you like it,” Harry smiles coyly. Or at least she thinks she’s being coy; she’s having a hard time talking, really, or doing anything save for lying there and basking in the afterglow of postcoital euphoria. At some point, she fumbles a hand down between her own legs to feel for herself where she’s hot and raw and still throbbing, wincing at the contact. “I can’t believe how hard you made me come,” she says then, awed. 

“Yeah?” Louis asks sweetly, lying down beside Harry and petting her hair, kissing her cheek, her temple, her forehead right where she's broken out. Harry’s heart sort of clenches because Louis isn’t _just_ insanely hot and talented at sex stuff, she's also _so nice_ , so tender. She makes Harry feel secure, both in her body and in her sexuality, makes her feel _safe_. It’s so wonderful that she sort of wants to cry, so she sniffles, eyes stinging with grateful tears as Louis traces idle patterns into her arm. “So that was alright? Made you feel good?” 

“Better than good,” Harry admits, turning and tilting her chin up so that she can kiss Louis squarely on the mouth, show her how _amazing_ this all is. Her lips taste bitten, spicy with Harry’s come, and that alone makes her heart flutter and her gut clench in longing. _God_. She wants to taste every little bit of Louis, wants all of her so badly. Their tongues tangle, legs twining as they snog, and Louis is moving subtly against her thigh, just a quiet, rhythmic grind, like it’s subconscious, like she’s not even aware that she’s doing it. Harry reaches around to palm the perfect swell of her arse, pulling back from their kiss with a wet sound, giving her enough room to murmur, “So…about sitting on my face?” 

Louis sort of chokes, hips locking up as she ducks into Harry’s shoulder to hide her suddenly burning face. There's a shaky inhale, fingers flexing against Harry’s side, and then a whisper, “Some of the stuff you say, Harry…fuck. You make me almost come without even touching me.” 

Harry squirms, feeling bolder, carefully hooking her thumb into Louis’s waistband so that she can feel the sweat-damp skin underneath. “But I _want_ to touch you,” she whispers back, flicking her tongue out over the sharp, lovely corner of Louis’s smile. “Please?” she adds, because Harry will beg until her throat is raw. She wants Louis’s thick thighs bracketing her neck, wants her weight bearing down on her chest, wants her spread and hot and dripping over her mouth. She wants to forget how to breathe. “ _Please_ ,” she repeats, more emphatically this time, and then Louis is cursing, pushing her down onto her back with a firm palm open on her chest. 

“God,” she moans, getting up on her knees and dragging Harry’s hips between them, pressing wet, feverish kisses along her throat, sucking at her pulse. “Are you sure that’s what you want, baby? You wanna stay on your back and have me ride your tongue?” 

“Oh, _fuck_ , god, yes, _yes_ ,” Harry keens, reaching between their bodies and fumbling with Louis’s shorts, unbuttoning them as best she can before shoving her hands down the sides to maul over Louis’s thighs. They’re so _strong_ and smooth, downy and unshaven, and Harry’s stomach is so twisted up in longing that she can hardly speak. “Get these off,” she manages to get out, tugging uselessly at the denim. “Please?” 

Louis laughs and sits up to struggle out of her shorts and the clingy grey boxer briefs underneath them while Harry lies back, eyes wide and blinking, throat tight. “I like how you keep saying please,” Louis teases, combing her fingers through her pubic hair and fluffing it so that it’s no longer matted down from her pants. Harry’s fucking _mouth_ waters as she smooths her palms up Louis’s thighs, amazed and overwhelmed and so, so turned on all over again. 

“Can you take your shirt off, too? Can I see you naked? You’ve seen me naked, but I…I haven’t seen you,” she reminds Louis. 

She shrugs before toying with the hem. “Yeah, but it’s not much…like, m’not the sort of girl other girls get excited about seeing naked.” 

This is information that Harry’s completely incapable of processing. She, for one, has been wondering what Louis Tomlinson looks like under her skater shirts and snapbacks since she was, like, fifteen. She shakes her head, brow furrowed. “What…why not?! You’re fucking _fit_ , and everyone thinks you’re hot, even _straight girls_ get confused over you and get crushes on you…you _know_ that, right?” 

Louis waves a hand through the air dismissively, sitting there on Harry’s hips in nothing but a bra and her Void shirt, which is so hot that it’s _absurd_. “Course I know that, but just because straight girls like me doesn’t mean they want to see me naked…s’weird, being sorta butch...sometimes girls, like… forget about your body? They don’t treat you like a sexy girl, anyway...s’hard to explain to you because you’re so fucking pretty, Harry.” 

“I think _you’re_ pretty, and I wanna see you naked,” Harry says impatiently, thumbing closer to Louis’s chestnut thatch of pubic hair, stomach knotted up in profound, dizzying hunger. “And I wanna see _all_ of your body and touch you everywhere, obviously,” she adds. “Please.” 

Louis shakes her head and smirks. “You’re….you’re so lovely,” she murmurs, almost to herself, straightening up to pull her shirt over her head. Her sports bra digs into her stomach a little, leaving a mark in her soft, golden skin as she takes it off, revealing her chest, and Harry...Harry is dying, probably. She has never seen another girl’s tits in a sexual setting, and she didn't think it would be world-changing necessarily or specifically, but the reality of the situation sort of hits her like a sucker punch, and there she lies: breathless, nothing but heart palpitations and awe and disbelief.

Louis’s tits are soft, a little uneven, and substantially paler than the rest of her skin, white with small, pink nipples capping them. Maybe it’s the way that she usually dresses, but they’re bigger than Harry was expecting, C cups, maybe, if Harry was the sort of girl who knew anything about cup size, but _definitely_ bigger than hers. Harry’s breath catches, and her hands pause their idle roving all over Louis’s thighs. “Well?” Louis asks, cheeks pink as she puts her hands on her waist and cocks her head expectantly. 

“You’re fucking beautiful,” Harry marvels, “Any girl who’s ever forgotten about your body is blind. Or stupid,” she adds, licking her lips and reaching up hesitantly. “Can I touch you?” she asks in a whisper. 

Louis nods, leaning forward and putting her hands on either side of Harry's ribcage so that she’s within grabbing distance, and with her heart lodged up in her throat, Harry fits her trembling palms to the sweet, perfect swell of Louis’s tits. And she’s…she’s the softest thing that Harry has ever touched. So much softness and heat and a magical weight in her hands, and maybe it’s a ridiculous thing to do, but she sort of gasps, thumbing over Louis’s nipples, stunned at the way they harden under her hands. “Every part of you is the best thing I’ve ever touched,” she confesses, sort of without meaning to. 

Louis laughs breathily, tangling a hand in Harry’s hair and making a fist, “How are you like this?” she asks, eyes wide and twinkly with awe. “I don’t…I dunno. It’s never felt so good to have someone just _look_ at me.” 

“I’ll look at you forever,” Harry answers automatically, instantly regretting it because, _god_ , that’s a huge and mortifying secret to spill on someone you’ve only fucked once. She’s about to apologize, to backpedal, but she can’t with Louis suddenly tonguing deep into her mouth and pressing her chest into her palms so hard that Harry can feel the wild beat of her heart in her ribcage. They kiss and kiss, Harry growing more desperate with every swirl of Louis’s tongue; she wants _more_ , she wants her _taste_. “Louis,” she slurs when they break apart to breathe. “I want you to fuck my mouth, _please_.” 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Louis growls, sitting up and clambering awkwardly over Harry on her knees, abdominals visibly heaving beneath the layer of softness on her tummy. Harry palms up it, wishing she could _bite_ it, but Louis’s holding her down with a firm hand in her hair. “Open your mouth, baby,” she orders. 

Harry does as she’s told, whimpering as she licks her lips, sticks her tongue out, and silently _begs_. Louis is over her chest but not over her face, close enough that Harry can feel the heat of her center burning up, the _humidity_ , but she can’t quite smell or taste it yet. It’s _maddening,_ so she whines, twisting her head against Louis’s grip. “Please let me.” 

“I will,” Louis promises, looking dizzy and amazed as she dips the index finger of her free hand into herself before pulling it out. It’s shiny and wet, and before Harry has time to even ask to suck it off, Louis is sliding it into her waiting mouth. “But I wanna watch you a little first,” she tells Harry, who can’t answer because she’s too busy groaning around Louis’s knuckles, tongue laving all over her finger, thighs clenching together at the spice and salt of her, tangy and perfect. 

She’s still sucking as Louis pulls her finger away, mouth open and gasping while she stares down at Harry through her fringe. “Is this alright?” she asks, spit-wet fingers moving back between her legs, rubbing up her slit so that Harry sees a flash of pink amid the dark curls. “That I’m teasing you? And pulling your hair?” 

“Yes,” Harry pants, squirming, licking her swollen lips. “You could tie me up, if you wanted to...you can do whatever you want.” 

“Fuck,” Louis breathes, pushing her index and middle fingers down firmly on her clit, thighs quaking as she throbs under the pressure. Harry watches, mesmerized, very nearly drooling. “Erm, I don’t have anything to tie you up with, but you could, like…grab your headboard? Keep your hands up there...don’t touch me unless I tell you to, yeah?” 

Harry nods eagerly, reaching above her head with shaky hands, crossing her wrists before curling her fingers tightly around the metal bars. “Okay...gimme me more?” 

“Okay,” Louis murmurs, thumbing over Harry’s lower lip before gathering more wetness on her fingers. “You tell me if this gets to be too much, though, yeah?” 

“I will,” Harry promises, eyes roving over Louis’s body, up to her flushed sternum, her pale tits, the soft roll in her stomach, her delicate hand working between her thighs, confidently parting the hair and smoothing it down so that she can touch herself unobstructed. Harry’s _dizzy,_ she looks so good, lungs constricted deliciously under Louis’s weight. 

“Open your mouth again,” Louis directs her, and this time Harry’s moaning even before she gets her taste. She sucks it off desperately, and then Louis’s getting more, whimpering a little as she fucks her fingers up into herself. 

This goes on for a bit, Harry gripping her headboard so tightly that her arms ache, holding on and humping the air pathetically while Louis feeds her. It’s too much, it’s not enough, and she’s so overwhelmed that she’s trembling, but she also wants so much _more_ , wants Louis spread over her _mouth_ so that she can eat her out for real. “Please, _please, please,_ ” she whines as Louis touches herself, playing with her clit, which is so hard that Harry can _see it_ , can imagine sucking it in and out of her mouth, holding it between her lips to flick her tongue over it. “ _Please_ , Louis, I really…I need it.” 

“God, you _do_ need it...you want it so, so badly,” Louis marvels, lifting up off Harry’s chest and shifting closer, gaze flicking to her white-knuckled grip. “Need a pillow? Gonna keep your hands up there?”

“Yes, yes, if you want me to,” Harry slurs, licking her lips, practically drooling, she’s so ready to taste Louis again. 

“Okay,” Louis breathes, adjusting Harry’s arms and using one hand to hold her wrist down against her pillow, straining her grip in a way that feels safe, contained, _hot_. Then, with her other hand, she spreads herself apart and straddles Harry’s face, showing her everything _inside_. And _fuck,_ she’s so _wet_ , slick and dripping and swollen and pink-red. Harry’s mouthing messily at the air, groaning, and then Louis’s giving it to her, and then she’s _drowning_. 

It all happens so fucking fast. She’s sucking and licking, clumsy with want and overwhelm, but Louis doesn’t seem to care, is thrusting her hips in short, measured bucks, grinding into Harry’s sloppy mouth, coming. Harry can _feel_ it; Louis’s muscles clenching up and throbbing against Harry’s chin while she sucks, her walls convulsing around Harry’s _tongue_ as she pitches forward onto her face mid-orgasm, Harry slipping up inside her, licking her out while Louis twitches and tightens. Harry can’t breathe and doesn’t care; she wants to die right here, wants to be smothered and fucked back to life, as long as she gets to stay between Louis’s thighs. 

Her hands are numb when Louis pulls away, holding her down by her hair as she tries to arch her neck up and keep eating. “Stay there,” Louis orders breathlessly, and Harry doesn’t have it in her to ask what’s happening or what she wants; she's too struck by the sudden rush of oxygen as she sucks in desperate, dizzying lungfuls of it. But Louis is switching positions, throwing her leg over Harry and maneuvering so that her head is somewhere near Harry’s knees and her _arse_ is in Harry’s face, and oxygen becomes superfluous because Harry totally stops breathing. 

Louis’s bum is quite possibly the 8th wonder of the world or something. It’s peachy and round, and it jiggles a little as she adjusts herself. Harry wants…she just wants to reach out, thumb her cheeks apart, and bury her face in the crack. “Fuck, Louis,” she keens, and Louis is kissing her thighs before she’s parting them, hooking her elbows under Harry’s knees and splitting her like a wishbone.

“Need to eat you out,” Louis groans, licking a stripe down the inside of Harry’s leg, making her shiver, yelp, kick. 

Harry can feel her breath huff out, hot and teasing, and she sort of sobs, grinding uselessly into the air. “Can I eat your arse?” she whines, beyond caring how desperate or filthy or depraved she seems; she’s beyond caring about anything at all. “S’okay if you don’t like that, I just want—”

“ _Fuck_ , Harry, you can do whatever,” Louis whimpers, laying her burning cheek on the inside of Harry’s thigh. “You can let go of the headboard, too, if you want.” 

In seconds, Harry’s letting go, flexing her fingers in the air before hungrily palming over the white curve of Louis’s perfect bum, hefting her back by her thighs, and craning her neck off her pillow so that she can get her _mouth_ on her. She presses a few sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the soft swell of Louis’s bum cheeks before she realizes that her neck is too weak to hold her head up at this angle, so she flops back down onto her pillows, grabbing them and fluffing them up under her neck so that she can reach properly. 

Louis’s been teasing her, kissing and mouthing over her inner thighs, idle and sweet and without any real path or intention, but as Harry is fixing the pillows, she drops her head between Harry’s parted legs and drives her tongue up into her. 

It’s _blinding_ , so hot and wet, and Harry is so _sensitive_ that she hisses, shocked. She was so fixated on Louis’s earth-shatteringly perfect arse that she almost forgot it was going to happen at all. She tries to catch her breath, face screwing up in overwhelm because Louis is _relentless_ , grunting into her and fucking her open, tucking her chin in toward her chest so that she can suck her clit. It’s _so good_ , and if Harry could tense her legs without them starting to spasm, she would be thrusting into the searing wet heat, but she can’t, so she just lies there, legs shot, head lolling pitifully as Louis takes her apart. 

At some point, she remembers her objective and rubs her still tingling hands up Louis’s smooth, pink cheeks, thumbing them apart so that she can _see_ her, get a good look at her hole, dark and dusky and surrounded by a bit of chestnut hair. Harry’s mouth is watering, and she can’t stand it anymore, so she leans forward and licks, swirling her tongue over the jut of Louis’s tail bone. 

Louis stills and groans into Harry's cunt, the vibration of it making Harry whine and squirm. She’s so _nervous_ and hungry and dizzyingly turned on, all of it coiled into the same mess of desperation, but as she dips in deeper, Louis’s hole flutters under her gentle, probing tongue, and that alone is so fucking _hot_ that she forgets her nerves, and pure, single-minded want takes over. She loses time and space, opening her mouth wide and licking Louis out messily, driven by self-indulgence, just wanting to _taste_ , to feel. It’s a weird feeling, licking Louis’s arsehole, but in the best sort of way. She’s puckered tight, and it’s hard to actually get her tongue in--Louis’s less messy and wet here, obviously--but the _idea_ of what Harry is doing, this filthy, intimate thing, is so fucking heady that she can hardly believe it. 

Louis’s whimpering into her, shifting back against her tongue as she eats her out with much less finesse than Harry remembers from last time, like Harry’s tongue in her arse feels so fucking good that she can’t focus, can’t think. Harry feels encouraged by her clumsiness, thinks it’s so fucking _sexy_ that Louis can’t control herself, can’t do a perfect job because it feels so _good_ to focus, to think. It’s that knowledge that pushes Harry over the edge again, and before she even has time to process it, her third orgasm is hitting her hard, static and heat and Louis’s perfect mouth on her, drooling down onto her sheets. 

She rolls her hips and sobs into Louis’s arse crack as she comes, stomach spasming so hard that she has a fucking _side cramp_ when she finally collapses down onto her pillow, face spit- and tear-streaked, breath falling out in great, staggering gulps. 

She lies there dazed as Louis rights herself, snuggling up against Harry and raining kisses down into everything she can reach, smelling like very dirty and very thorough sex. “Usually,” she giggles into the side of Harry’s face, “I don’t get me arse eaten on the second date, but I’m learning that you’re special.” 

“Was this…was this a date?” Harry asks hazily, rolling onto her side so that she can burrow into Louis, just wanting her _close_ , wanting them to be touching in every possible place, skin adhered together like velcro. She throws her arms around her and squeezes, feeling silly and taken care of and so, so, so fucked out, all her limbs reduced to jelly and trembles. It’s the best feeling in the whole wide world, and she’s so _gay_. So fucking gay that it somehow feels like a revelation all over again. “I thought last time wasn’t a date either…just a happy accident. Are you ever gonna take me out on a _real_ date, or are we just…gonna fuck in my bed? Because I like this just fine,” Harry rambles, aware that she’s talking too much but not even caring. Louis feels too good, too warm and comforting, plus she’s looking at her with these _eyes_ , crinkled at the corners as she smiles huge and adoring. Harry feels… _loved_. Which seems impossible, given the whole two-not-even-real-dates business, but it _feels_ real, with the way Louis is thumbing the hair out of her eyes, the spit away from her chin, softly and carefully, like she’s precious. 

“ _Of course,_ I’m gonna take you out, but only when you're all better,” she announces, squeezing Harry’s arm with firm, reassuring pressure. It feels good, and Harry settles into it, beaming as Louis adds, “Speaking of which, how are you feeling, baby? Did I hurt you...is your throat sore again?” she asks gently, and Harry’s stomach clutches hot and perfect under the glow of Louis’s attention, at the fact that she’s calling her _baby_ without being two fingers deep. Like it’s a _girlfriends_ thing instead of a sex thing. 

“S’not bad. Not _worse,_ anyway...I feel great, in fact, the best I’ve felt in two whole days. You’re good for me, apparently,” she grins cheekily. 

Louis kisses her. “Your dimples kill me,” she says, thumbing over the corner of Harry’s smile. They trade sweet, sloppy kisses for a few minutes before Louis pulls back dramatically, fixes her hair, and sighs. “Okay, here’s what I’m gonna do,” she declares, pushing Harry back when she tries to catch her mouth again, much to Harry’s disappointment. She pouts as Louis rolls off the bed and rummages around for the clothes she tossed aside earlier. “M’gonna venture into the kitchen and make you some tea for your throat. And _you_ are gonna shower because you smell like sex and sweat, and your sister and mum are gonna be home eventually, and also because I think it’ll make you feel better. _Then_ , we’re gonna meet back in here, and you can show me all the filthy shit you wrote about me in your diary,” she finishes, grinning at Harry mischievously. 

Harry gasps, kicking uselessly in the air. “Oh, my god, _nooooo_ …it’s so…Lou. It’s so embarrassing.” 

“I let you lick my bumhole,” Louis chides, pulling her briefs on over her shapely, unshaven legs and the bum in question, looking for all the world like a butch Calvin Klein model or something equally glorious. Harry would swoon if she wasn’t already lying down, legs akimbo and limp like a noodle. “You can let me read your teenage fantasies about me after licking my bumhole, I think.” 

“Okay,” Harry sighs. “But you have to promise to still like me afterward. And watch _The Notebook_ with me and not make fun of me for liking soppy films.” 

Louis smiles like sunshine and spun-sugar and the promise of gold, and Harry’s heart stops. Then, Louis leans down and kisses her deeply and tenderly, pulling back slightly so that their lips are still brushing as she whispers, “I promise to still like you. You’re gonna have to do something truly, truly awful to get me to think you’re anything but the loveliest, most wonderful girl, Harry Styles.” She kisses her again and pulls back to announce in her regular voice. “It’s a plan. I love _The Notebook_.” 

And as Louis grabs the chamomile and shuffles out to the kitchen, Harry’s heart feels like it could take off straight from her chest, like a bird, like a butterfly, like the whole of a rose garden in a windstorm and every single petal and thorn inside of it.


End file.
